


Eight Days a Week

by Rubynye



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, M/M, Pre-Serum, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:43:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky fight about enlisting, and make up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Days a Week

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abi z (azephirin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/gifts), [samalander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/gifts).



> The title's from a song that wouldn't come out for another generation, I know, but it was the only fitting phrase.
> 
> This story was inspired by [this fascinating discussion](http://intosnarkness.tumblr.com/post/82497645116%0A) of when Steve enlisted, how it's likely that Bucky was drafted, and the interaction of that fact with their relationship.

It's been eight days of heat and torture and fucking deprivation. Eight days since Bucky had an actual fight with Steve, whom he never fights with, who knows him like the back of his hand. But they had a fight, and honestly, though all the Nazis storming Poland couldn't beat it out of him, Buck admits silently to himself he should've known better.

Draped over the sofa in the evening heat, wearing a threadbare old pair of slacks and nothing else, clutching a long-necked beer bottle, Bucky stares across at the back of Steve's bent head, at a bead of sweat slowly growing on his nape. Steve sits primly at the table, dressed in shirt and shoes like he's going somewhere, drawing an apple set on an overturned bowl, basic stupid shit he could've done fifteen years ago, and why is Bucky mad at Steve's time-waster when he should still be mad at Steve? He glances over at the floor, but there's only two empties there. He's not really drunk or anything.

The bead of sweat swells on Steve's neck, dangling from fine golden hair. Bucky wants, rather goddamn badly, to lick it off, to drag Steve's shirt down his shoulders and kiss the soft skinned furrow of his spine as Steve shakes under his mouth, to push Steve up on the table and swallow him down while jerking off, God, that'd be heaven for a sinner. He takes another gulp of beer, flicking his tongue across the bottle's mouth like he'd like to lick Steve's, willing Steve to feel the weight of his stare, to relent, to melt. It's been eight days and Steve gets surprisingly randy for such a skinny little fella. Bucky would know.

But Steve's stubbornness is stronger than his _natural urges_ , or Bucky's, or anything else in creation. Bucky takes another bubbly-bitter sip and remembers that stupid fight, eight days ago in this same room, Steve waving a notice of yet another recruiting center at him, bright-faced as he said, "Bucky, we can go enlist together!"

Bucky remembers how beautiful Steve looked, all guy of course but so damn beautiful shining with hope like that. He was sore from work and tired, and Steve just looked far too gorgeous and precious to be wasted on war, and he should've lied but he doesn't lie to Steve. So he shook his head and watched Steve's face fall, all big blue eyes and little pink pout, and tried to talk some sense into the most mulish blockhead he's ever had the misfortune of being best intimate buddies with.

Steve turned white and red, a perfect set of flag colors with those blazing blue eyes, waving the paper in one balled-up fist as he went on about honor and duty and how could they not do their part, Bucky, don't you know what's at stake? Bucky could've kissed him, all lit up with righteousness like that, could've hit him if he wouldn't've busted his fingers on Steve's hard head, tried to make him see reason and just ended up yelling, "I don't wanna leave, you idiot! Not New York, not the dames, not the nights, most of all not you! I wouldn't leave you for the world!"

"But we could enlist together," Steve insisted, voice falling as he spoke, and Bucky shook his head as he reached out to grip Steve's knobby shoulders, hoping he'd _give up_ , for once. Which was his biggest mistake, of course. One thing Steve never does is give up. He sure didn't eight nights ago, as he firmed up his chin and squared his shoulders under Bucky's hands, straight and proud as a statue and breakable as a stick as he looked Bucky in the eye and said, "well, then, if I -- if _this_ \-- is keeping you from doing your duty then maybe I should stop distracting you." And he fucking peeled Bucky's hands off his shoulders, stepped around him, and walked out the door.

They didn't take him, of course, and Bucky didn't say, "I told you so." Instead he waited. Steve was nice all week, friendly as ever, and wouldn't come within arm's reach of Bucky, who's kept on waiting. He's stopped wearing anything around the place except his most disreputable falling-off slacks, he's taken to drinking beer out of the bottles instead of using a glass, he's sucked on everything he can find to suck on. Sometimes he catches Steve's eye and Steve blushes hotly, whirling away. But he won't come near Bucky, he won't give in.

For three days now Bucky's gotten up early just so he can make a point of jerking off, loudly, in the bathroom while Steve's waking up. It's not as much fun as it should be; he'd rather have Steve's two hands than his one, would rather have the scent of Steve's hair and his sweet-faced snide comments and his eager kisses. Instead Bucky has Steve keeping to his own bed, holding a pillow over his head while Bucky walks past and running the water for a half hour straight during his turn in the bathroom. Obnoxious, gorgeous, stubborn fucker. Bucky takes another swig, making a long obscene slurp of it.

Steve twitches, that sweat drop rolling free down to his collar. Bucky licks the bottle's neck as loudly as he can, which isn't very, but Steve's pencil hits the table. He manages a nice loud sucking noise, like he's trying to hickey the smooth glass, and Steve glances back at him, eyes wide and dark as the summer night.

Bucky keeps from smiling by curving his lips around the bottle's mouth, draining it in three long continuous swallows, tipping his head back so his neck arches, watching Steve's Adam's-apple bob jerkily in his throat. He pulls the bottle slowly from between his lips, poking out his tongue to flick across its mouth again.

"Fuck," Steve says like he's praying, his voice so reverent it takes Bucky a moment to realize Steve just _cursed_. Besides, he has better things to think about when Steve flings himself out of his chair, stomping across the floor like he could make it shake, fists clenched and mouth pressed tight. Bucky pushes himself up on his elbows, watching Steve storm towards him; heart racing like he's flying down a roller coaster, he licks his lips and doesn't let himself say anything. It's not easy to keep his mouth shut while the stubbornnest guy in Brooklyn stares down at him like he can't decide whether to start whaling on him or to eat him alive.

It's worth it, though, when Steve shakes his head once and dives for Bucky's fly, opening it in three quick button-pops and shoving the slacks down his hips so fast the cloth scrapes hot over sticky skin. Bucky hisses as Steve ungently yanks his dick out, but the swallowed 'ouch' melts into hot astonishment as Steve goes down like a champion sword-swallower and climbs up to straddle Bucky's knees. "Steve," Bucky gasps, dick nudging the fluttering back of Steve's throat, "easy, easy," as his balls nudge Steve's chin, "don't choke, damn- _yipe_ ," because Steve grazes him with a deliberate tooth right under his cockhead and slams down harder on the next stroke. "Shit!" Steve's eyes are screwed shut, Bucky can feel him snuffling, he reaches down to touch Steve's hair, and Steve grabs his hand and flattens it to his belly.

God, Steve's strong when he gets his dander up. Bucky gives in, dropping his spinning head back over the sofa's arm, groaning as Steve sucks hot and tight around him, drags of rippling tongue on each upstroke. Steve holds on tight to Bucky's hand, other hand cupping his balls just this side of a grab, but Bucky's got two hands too and the bottle's empty anyway. He drops it beside the cushion and reaches to touch Steve's cheek, feeling the bulge of his own dick through taut heated skin. "God _damn_ it, Steve," Bucky groans, already dragged to the brink, "I'm gonna, you should -- " and Steve just sucks harder, of fucking course. "Come on, you stubborn punk, back up -- " Bucky tries to squirm back, because he tries to be a fucking gentleman, dammit, and Steve grabs his hips with both hands, shoves down until his pointy nose dents Bucky's belly and keeps on swallowing around him. "I, I can't --" Bucky gasps, and does, shuddering into ecstasy, broken vowels falling from his mouth as he pulses into Steve's.

One last deep swallow, two shivering licks, and Steve pulls off coughing, still gripping Bucky's hip with one hand, wiping his mouth with the other, a wet slick sound. "Jesus," Bucky whimpers, his whole body clocked out, unable to even raise his head, hoping Steve didn't cocksuck himself into an asthma attack or something. Steve coughs a few more times, until Bucky's heart gathers into a worried clench despite the warm lassitude blanketing him; but then he _growls_ , holy shit, and Bucky looks up to see Steve's red-cheeked determined face about to land on his, lips parted and eyes shut.

What else can Buck do but kiss him? He tastes like heat and spunk, slick and salty-bitter, and it maybe should be off and it's so hot Bucky twitches down deep and gives up a groan. Steve squirms up into the crook of his arm, their hands jostling as they manage to get Steve's pants open over the hard line of his dick, damp with precome in his boxers. They could use something to help, there's no grease in reach, and Bucky realizes the slight flaw in his plan, but he's got Steve squirming on his chest, he couldn't disentangle if he tried. He shoves his fingers kinda into, kinda between their mouths, and he and Steve lick them and each other's lips, sinking back into deep hot tonsil hockey as Bucky shoves his wetted fingers back into Steve's fly.

Steve shivers delicately all over like he always does, and Bucky wants to climb into his skin and feel him everywhere. As he tangles their tongues he jerks Steve fast, and it doesn't take long till Steve moans up into a scream and a gasp and another scream as he spurts all over Bucky's fingers and his own belly. A final bone-rattling shudder and Steve slumps onto Bucky's shoulder, and Buck drags his mouth free and blinks open hazy eyes. Steve's panting hard, but he's not that alarming red anymore, and there's a smile in the corner of his open mouth. And a smear of jizz, good goddamn, they're a mess. Bucky swipes his hand on his thigh, scrubbing his palm against the wrecked slacks, and runs his thumbtip across Steve's lip, and Steve smiles kind of slackly, still gasping, and shapes a weak kiss to Bucky's thumb.

For a few moments they just lie there together on the sofa, Bucky's hand curved over Steve's jaw, his heart probably in his eyes but Steve's are still closed. Then Steve frowns, his lower lip jutting pink and pretty as any girl's, and Bucky has to bite his own to keep his mouth shut so he won't say so. A sock in the jaw wouldn't be the best chaser to that blow job.

Instead Bucky waits, and Steve opens his eyes, that blue only he owns, toes off his shoes and kicks them off the sofa. When Steve unsnaps his suspenders Bucky helpfully tugs his pants off, and Steve half-grins, lopsided and heartening; between them they shuck his clothes off and Bucky's slacks too, and pitch everything to the floor.

"We should soak those," Steve says, but he squirms his damp back more firmly into Bucky's hold and drapes his arm across Bucky's collarbones, lying on him like a bony, welcome blanket.

"Yeah, I see you getting up," Bucky answers, folding his other hand over Steve's shoulder, looking at the breadth of it. Steve's got good square shoulders, even though there's barely any flesh on his bones. Bucky forgets sometimes, until they're alone and naked and he gets a good eyeful again.

Steve rolls his eyes, but then he frowns again, brow wrinkling, jaw setting. "I feel guilty," he announces, and it's Bucky's turn to roll his eyes, for which Steve thumps his shoulder. "I mean it, Buck. People are dying and here we are lolling around."

"We're allowed to live our lives, you know." Steve looks up at him and conviction swells in Bucky's chest, under Steve's hand. "You're allowed to enjoy yours. What are people fighting for if not to be free to live, to be happy?" Steve shrugs a little but smiles, his forehead smoothing, so Bucky adds, fluttering his eyelashes once or twice, "And you get to enjoy me, how's that?"

"Especially your humility," Steve answers, and Bucky has to grin. "And your class, lying around here half dressed, looking sinful." That's as far as he gets before Bucky has to start laughing, eight days of knotted tension fully unraveling, and Steve gives in and laughs too, slipping his arm up around Bucky's neck, pressed so close Bucky can hardly tell where Steve stops and he begins.

"Christ Almighty, Steve," Bucky says eventually, pitching his voice low, breathing the words across Steve's mouth, feeling Steve shiver heatedly in his arms. "Desperate times, you blockhead, cutting me off like that. I had to pull out the heavy artillery to get you to forgive me."

Steve gives it right back, leaning in so Bucky almost goes cross-eyed looking at him, their noses gently bumping. "I'm not sure I have." As he glances sideways he slides his fingers up Bucky's nape and into his hair, seductive as any Mata Hari just by being himself. "I might, though, maybe, if you take me to bed and fuck me." From proper polite Steve dirty talk hits like a gut punch, knocking a gasp out of Bucky as lust blooms beneath his skin hotter than the sultry summer air. He opens his mouth to say something he hasn't thought up yet but Steve looks up into his eyes again and orders, "As hard as you possibly can."

"Shit, yeah," Bucky mumbles obediently as he pulls Steve up and kisses him, rolling him across onto his feet. Steve pushes away, hands flat on Bucky's chest, smiles and heads for their bedroom, and Bucky just watches him walk a moment before shoving himself up to follow Steve.

* * * * * 

When he falls asleep that night, Steve curled up sticky on his chest despite the heat, Bucky expects that to be the end of it, but the next morning at breakfast, after Steve ostentatiously puts a pillow on his chair, he talks about enlisting like their fight never happened. Bucky just shrugs and watches him talk, then changes the subject to a new dance hall he heard about, and Steve shrugs in return and smiles a little wider as he nods and agrees the place sounds worth a try.

The year cools down, Steve and Bucky don't, and life continues through winter and spring until one day a draft notice falls out of their mail cubby into Bucky's hand. He'd like to think, as he reads it, and rereads it, and thuds into a kitchen chair with his belly clenched up tight, that his first thought was, "Who'll look after Steve," but in his heart Bucky knows it's actually, "What'll I do without Steve beside me?"

Steve comes home and finds him frozen in place, sitting at the table with the draft notice in his hand. He drops his satchel and comes right over; sitting like this Bucky has to look up at Steve, at the line of his jaw and the sweep of his hair and the certainty in his blue, blue eyes as he sets his hand on Bucky's shoulder.

"I'm proud of you," Steve says with a warm smile, as if Bucky had volunteered, as if he hasn't been fighting unsuccessfully for months for what Bucky's just gotten ordered to do. Bucky's heart lurches back into rhythm, and Steve bends a little and kisses him gently, mouth closed, like a blessing. When he straightens up he smiles wider, big and brave. "If you want to go out tonight and celebrate, I'm game."

Like always, Steve's courage kindles Bucky's, until the sick fear fades, until he starts to think that he might actually be able to do this, go to war and maybe even come back. He reaches out, hooking his fingers into Steve's belt loops, needing to show just how much he appreciates it while they still have time. "Nah," Bucky answers, pulling Steve close, licking his lips and watching Steve blink and stare at his mouth, "it's raining, and I haven't even lined up any hot dates for us. Let's stay in."


End file.
